


Small World

by jeanralphio



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music & Bands, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:20:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanralphio/pseuds/jeanralphio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick is part of an indie band (with several OC band members) and meets Gatsby, a cellist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra, in a practice studio by chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small World

My life has, admittedly, not gone exactly as planned since I was eighteen - I was meant to go to a decent school, get a career as a stockbroker, and generally follow in my family’s footsteps, uncomplaining, until the day I died. My father hasn’t spoken to me since I told him I was forgoing four years of a degree in Economics to become a pianist, and, eventually, to join a band comprising of the most unusual assortment of characters I would ever have expected to befriend. In his defense, that wasn’t exactly my plan, either.

But since he’s finally decided he doesn’t much care what his 30-year-old son wastes his life on as long as he doesn’t have to be on speaking terms with me, I’ve allowed myself to enjoy the strange direction my life has chosen to take. The band isn’t exactly unsuccessful - we make a good deal of money, as unknown as we are, primarily thanks to being signed with one of the biggest record companies in America. It helps to be the cousin of the buoyant wife of said company’s owner, Tom Buchanan. That much is thanks to me, as much as Craig, the band’s founder, would hate to admit it.

Craig and I vaguely knew one another in college, but, to put it bluntly, did not get along. He was a transfer student from England, full of both himself and of pints upon pints of alcohol, and was the talk of the campus after being there for less than a week. Everyone marveled at his angelic singing ability and his enigmatic rapidly-graying hair so much that no one took the time to notice how he was essentially failing out of class. When he approached me to join a band along with two completely indiscriminate ladies he had found via a bulletin board outside an indie club, it was obvious that he was as reluctant to ask as I was to join.

But even so, I liked the band, and could tolerate Craig if only for the presence of Stella and Violetta, the other two members. Stella was about the sweetest person I had ever met, and Vi, though the proprietor of a fiery personality, was likable in her own way. The hours were long, and the venues sometimes cramped, but nothing really compared to the opportunity to make music for a living as far as I was concerned.

Our schedule was pretty inconsistent - we would always meet at the studio owned by Buchanan during the weekends and before gigs, but during the week, Stella worked mornings at a travel agency out of fear and devotion to her family. Any possible time we needed to practice or perform was then reserved for the evenings, and generally scheduled the morning of in a rapid-fire round of calls to each others’ cell phones. 

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I would wake up late, watch TV, and leave for the private practice studio at five o’clock to stay late and play on my own. The owner and I had struck a deal as far as payment went, and I was free to have the room to myself all evening on those nights provided he was reimbursed by the month’s end. The cost of the private practice room was well worth the chance to play a real piano rather than a keyboard for as long as I wanted.

This particular Tuesday, a temperate one in the middle of April, was no different - I woke up at noon, watched reruns of _Seinfeld_ and ate cereal all afternoon, and headed to the conservatory studio at ten to five. New sheet music in hand, I walked the hilly streets of the city, hoping idly that the couple who used the room before me had cleared out by now. They tended, to my annoyance, to wait until the very last minute to gather their drum set and vacate the premises.

I nodded at the manager as I pushed past the double doors and eyed the pimply new kid standing behind the front desk. The manager introduced him.

“This is Nick, one of our regulars,” he said, motioning towards me. “Nick, this is Ewing - he takes classes at Woodward. He’s handling scheduling now.”

I raised an eyebrow. No one’s name is _Ewing._

My practice room was, to my dismay, still occupied. I rapped my knuckles impatiently on the door and heard a scuffle from inside as its occupants hurried to pack up. I waited, absentmindedly playing through a phone call I had with Jordan earlier that week in my head.

“There’s this guy in my section - he’s pretty new - and god, he’s gorgeous, Nick. I’d hit that _hard._ ”

I had rolled my eyes, too familiar with Jordan’s constant discovery of attractive new workmates. The L.A. Philharmonic Orchestra was mostly member to old gentlemen and ladies, both of whom had worked tenaciously to earn their places in the concert hall. But Jordan had the freakish ability to find desirable men regardless of the current membership.

“Why don’t you, then?” I asked.

“I don’t date guys I work with. Remember what happened with Chad? And anyway, he’s gorgeous, but he seems sort of distant. Weirdly polite and attached to his music.”

“Maybe he’s got an instrument fetish.”

“Gross, Nick.”

“What does he play?”

“Cello, you sicko.”

“All the more easy to make love to, I’d imagine.”

The conversation ended around there with Jordan making fake retching noises at me on the other line. I felt triumphant.

The room newly vacated, I stepped inside, closing the door behind me and taking a seat at the piano. I certainly had the money to buy a piano of my own and set it up in my apartment, but my neighbors, unfortunately, would not be so keen. I mostly played keyboard for the band, unless our songs called for electric bass or accordion, and the keyboard, as most pianists will feverishly agree, is just not the same.

I had barely grazed my fingers over the keys when I heard the door click open behind me. I turned, annoyed, then subdued, as the man standing before me was sickeningly good-looking. He was slightly tan, skin pulled taut over his features to define his angular jawline, yet his eyes tired and wearing worried lines of concern. His blonde hair was combed over in an almost old-fashioned style, and I silently cursed myself as I let my eyes travel down his chest and admire the way his shirt clung to his stomach and arms. I did not want to have to kick out someone this fetching.

“What do you want,” I asked, surprised at the vexation in my own voice.

He looked startled, and shifted uncomfortably in the doorway so I could see his large instrument case. “Do, uh, do you work here? I have this practice room booked.”

“Well, there’s been a mistake, then,” I answered. “I’ve got it booked every Tuesday.”

The man frowned, then leaned over to read the log sheet sitting on top of the piano. I never bothered to look at it because of my regularity. He pointed. “Sorry, but I’m written in here - five to midnight.”

I snatched it and furrowed my eyebrows as I read the untidy scrawl - _Jay Gatsby, 5PM - 12AM, Room 4, 11/12/12._ My name was nowhere to be found. I blamed the new kid.

“Well,” I said dully, handing it back to the man while trying not to make eye contact with the man. “I can clear out, if you really need it. I’ve got this place on Thursday, too.”

“No, no, listen -” He put an unwelcome hand on my forearm. I started at the strange intimacy. “We’ve both paid good money to be here, and I think it would be unfair for one of us to have a monopoly over the other. So i don’t mind sharing, if you don’t.”

I considered him. On one hand, the more shallow part of me was completely unopposed to sharing a room with this man for a good seven hours. On the other, my better judgment told me I had better head home and take a cold shower.

“And do what, take turns?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Or play together, maybe. I’m always open to learning new things, and from what I know, the piano and the cello aren't exactly strangers to one another.”

I snorted. He spoke like a sobered classical composer. “Okay,” I relented. “Why not.”

I held my hand out to him as he closed the door behind us, grateful. “I’m Nick.”

He turned and smiled. “Gatsby,” he said, taking my hand and holding it for a moment before shaking, callouses rough against my smoother skin.

Smiling is an understatement. It felt like about ten different emotions were packed behind that smile: feelings of welcome, confidence, reassurance, and acceptance the like of which I had never seen before. I felt appeased and unsettled at once, as if the simple shift in his muscles was both the most terrifying and the most affectionate I had ever been privy to. I wanted both to never look away from it, and to shut my eyes and hold only the memory of that smile forever for fear that any replica would never hold the same passion.

That, or I was clearly not getting laid enough.

He unclipped his cello from its case and lifted it out, holding it delicately as only a caring player wood. It was gorgeous, red wood clean of any scratches and gleaming like new, and even I, who had never lifted the bow of a cello, felt the need to touch it. I felt slightly guilty about what I had said to Jordan earlier over the phone.

“Do you work in music, Nick?” I heard Gatsby ask me. I watched his hands move habitually over the pegs of the cello.

“Yeah. I’m in a band.” I laughed a little to myself. I made a point not to go out much anymore for distaste of meeting new people and getting drunk, and my introduction, as a result, felt a little dated. “I doubt you’ve heard of us, we’re pretty small. But we do well on the indie circuit. How about you?”

“L.A. Philharmonic,” he answered almost gravely. “It’s dedicated work, but I enjoy it. Any chance to play with an orchestra was one I was willing to concede a social life for.”

“You wouldn’t know a Jordan Baker, would you? She plays viola.”

He brightened. “I do, actually. She’s in my section.”

I chuckled. “She was just telling me about a cellist in her section. Maybe it was you.”

“I don’t know why anyone would feel the need to talk about me,” he remarked. I seriously wondered whether he was joking. “I’m fairly average as far as cellists go.”

“I’m sure you’re wonderful,” I told him, half-sarcastic, and half-not. 

“And I’m sure you are, too, but I won’t know that for sure until you play me something, old sport. So put those dainty hands to use.”

I laughed. Even then, I was laughing more than I had in a long time. Weirdly liberated, and heart in my throat for this first time since the band started gigging, I began to play.


End file.
